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PROPERZIA ROSSI

From the slow wasting, from the lonely pain,
The inward burning of those words-" In vain,"
Seared on the heart-I go. "Twill soon be past!
Sunshine and song, and bright Italian heaven,
And thou, oh! thou, on whom my spirit cast
Unvalued wealth-who know'st not what was given
In that devotedness-the sad and deep,

And unrepaid farewell! If I could weep
Once, only once, beloved one! on thy breast,
Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest!
But that were happiness !—and unto me
Earth's gift is fame. Yet I was formed to be
So richly blessed! With thee to watch the sky,
Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh;
With thee to listen, while the tones of song
Swept even as part of our sweet air along—
To listen silently; with thee to gaze
On forms, the deified of olden days-

This had been joy enough; and hour by hour,
From its glad well-springs drinking life and power,
How had my spirit soared, and made its fame
A glory for thy brow! Dreams, dreams!-The fire
Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name--
As a deep thrill may linger on the lyre
When its full chords are hushed-awhile to live,
And one day haply in thy heart revive

Sad thoughts of me. I leave it, with a sound,
A spell o'er memory, mournfully profound;
I leave it, on my country's air to dwell—
Say proudly yet-"'Twas hers who loved me well!"

GERTRUDE; OR, FIDELITY TILL DEATH

[THE BARON VON DER WART, accused-though it is believed unjustly as an accomplice in the assassination of the Emperor Albert, was bound alive on the wheel, and attended by his wife Gertrude, throughout his last agonising hours, with the most heroic devotedness. Her own sufferings, with those of her unfortunate husband, are most affectingly described in a letter which she afterwards addressed to a female friend, and which was published some years ago, at Haarlem, in a book entitled Gertrude Von der Wart; or, Fidelity unto Death.]

"Dark lowers our fate,

And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us;

But nothing, till that latest agony

Which severs thee from nature, shall unloose

This fix'd and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house,

In the terrific face of armed law,

Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be,

I never will forsake thee."- JOANNA BAILLIE.

HER hands were clasped, her dark eyes raised,
The breeze threw back her hair;

Up to the fearful wheel she gazed

All that she loved was there.

The night was round her clear and cold,

The holy heaven above,

Its pale stars watching to behold

The might of earthly love.

GERTRUDE; OR, FIDELITY TILL DEATH 31

"And bid me not depart," she cried;

"My Rudolph! say not so! This is no time to quit thy side

Peace! peace! I cannot go.

Hath the world aught for me to fear,

When death is on thy brow?

The world! what means it? Mine is here

I will not leave thee now.

"I have been with thee in thine hour

Of glory and of bliss ;

Doubt not its memory's living power

To strengthen me through this! And thou, mine honoured love and true! bear nobly on :

Bear on,

We have the blessed heaven in view,
Whose rest shall soon be won."

And were not these high words to flow
From woman's breaking heart?
Through all that night of bitterest woe
She bore her lofty part;

But oh! with such a glazing eye,

With such a curdling cheek—

Love, Love! of mortal agony

Thou, only thou, shouldst speak!

The wind rose high-but with it rose
Her voice, that he might hear:—
Perchance that dark hour brought repose

To happy bosoms near;

While she sat striving with despair

Beside his tortured form,

And pouring her deep soul in prayer
Forth on the rushing storm.

She wiped the death-damps from his brow
With her pale hands and soft,
Whose touch upon the lute-chords low
Had stilled his heart so oft.

She spread her mantle o'er his breast,
She bathed his lips with dew,
And on his cheek such kisses pressed
As hope and joy ne'er knew.

Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith,
Enduring to the last!

She had her meed-one smile in death-
And his worn spirit passed!

While even as o'er a martyr's grave

She knelt on that sad spot,

And, weeping, blessed the God who gave Strength to forsake it not.

IMELDA

"Sometimes

The young forgot the lessons they had learnt,

And loved when they should hate-like thee, Imelda !"*

ITALY; a Poem.

"Passa la bella Donna, e par che dorma."-TASSO.

WE have the myrtle's breath around us here,
Amidst the fallen pillars: this hath been
Some Naiad's fane of old. How brightly clear,
Flinging a vein of silver o'er the scene,

Up through the shadowy grass the fountain wells,
And music with it, gushing from beneath
The ivied altar! That sweet murmur tells
The rich wild-flowers no tale of woe or death;
Yet once the wave was darkened, and a stain
Lay deep, and heavy drops-but not of rain-
On the dim violets by its marble bed,
And the pale shining water-lily's head.

Sad is that legend's truth.- A fair girl met One whom she loved, by this lone temple's spring, Just as the sun behind the pine-grove set, And eve's low voice in whispers woke, to bring All wanderers home. They stood, that gentle pair,

* See Sismondi's Histoire des Républiques Italiennes, iii. 443.

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